Snow Dust and Feather Lights
by BebePanda401
Summary: "And maybe there's no magic in the shooting stars - but it exists in the grip of their hands, the light dancing across their eyes, and the power of their belief in the wish." - Magic may only exist once every six years, when the market comes to the village of Burgess, but for a girl adorned in colour and a boy who's limits for fun know no bounds, that's all the time they need.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Snow Dust and Feather Lights.  
**A/N: **I've recently been inspired by a story called 'Stardust', written by Neil Gaiman. Whilst I have not actually finished such an incredible book yet, I loved the setting and premise so much, it inspired me to write this little story. I'm pretty sure I want to make this a multi-chapter fic, I definitely do have ideas for it - but I'm wondering if it should be left as a one-shot. I'd love some feedback on this. But regardless, I've tried a new writing-style here, and I'm not too sure how it is. In other words, please review and let me know what you think!

* * *

**-Chapter One-**

**- In which we discover that the innocence of a child is not always their most obvious quality –**

To say that Burgess was a village of mystery and wonder was an understatement to anybody who had the beloved and rare ability to make good use of make-believe, even in the elder years of their adulthood.

Alpine trees bore a sense of nostalgic scents, of the kind of trees that the father would go and collect to store in the back garden's as a decorative addition for the festive seasons, and could be found bordering the village's ends for miles to see. They coveted the landscape, almost hiding the town in it's own little world of small, but endearing merriment.

The village of Burgess itself isn't too interesting to look at – the slated roofs and red-bricked cottages aren't exactly a rarity in the timeline, but the way they give every family inhabiting the housing their own little space is enough to get the sense that the community is respective, if not just a little cautious. Fresh smells of spiced bread or dew-coated camellias reign from the gardens, the farmland and pastures taking a more earthy, musky aroma.

Fairy tales were a third parent in the children of Burgess's upbringings, and many of the adults refuse to call them 'childish', as much as warnings and moral for the children to abide by. They play a crucial part in shaping the child, as well as giving them a friend if they find themselves wishing just a little too long on that star that get's covered by the thick grey clouds on the eve of a thundering storm.

But it was the lake, just a few miles away from the center of the hustle-and-bustle, that intrigues and frightens most.

Shaped like a circle drawn by the wrong hand of a child, the lake of Burgess holds an almost regal air. The grass is wispy, yet dipped in white when Winter arrives. The alpine trees govern the clearing, watching intensely with statures over six feet high to those who dare to enter the domain. And yet, also give enough shines of the sun to the many flowers that grow their – red foxtrots, camellias, snowdrops, tiger-lilies, waterlilies, and many flowers that travellers have never known that the seeds they carry may accidentally fall out into the earthy soil, and lease a wild, yet beautiful life of their own. The dirt road travels near the lake, but there's always that one bump that sends the small seeds flying into a patch.

At first, the legends and lore of the supposed 'lights' that hovered over the lake when a rambler had passed upon it were thought of nothing more than a story told by drunken men, who'd been intoxicated a little too much and strayed too far from their wives. But as they continue, a trend and pattern appears – and those frighten people. Cause their children to have a curfew; "be back before dark! No wandering too far near that lake!"

Perhaps not paranoia, but close.

Winter time is when people are told to stray away from the lake the most. The lake freezes over, and the ice bears a pink, romantic glow in the twilight sun. Ethereal. Passionate. But passion can be dangerous.

Alas, the village isn't all doom and gloom. If anything, it's cheery, mellow, laid-back. Almost sleepy, unless the reckless nature of the children encourages adults to abandon their dignity and just frolic around in the rays of sunlight and lay in the wispy grass until it get's too cold.

But most of all, in an occasional Summer time, that's when everybody's hearts races. Nobody can hold in their excitement. Smiles plaster frowns, errands become little more than pass-times.

For every six years, magic enters Burgess.

Oh, there is magic in the literal sense – magicians, tricksters, wizards and witches. Spells and cauldrons and spices used for who-knows-what, in the eyes of children can be used for nothing but pure fun and enjoyment.

But for others, the real magic is in the sheer _scope _of it all. For every nine years, the travelling market known simply as the _Guardian's Parade _makes a rest-stop and business opportunity at Burgess, providing the naked eye with wonder and joy.

Words of many native tongues dance in the air, the smell of foreign spices and perfumes inhabit free space around each stall. Bright colours, some painful to see – yellows, oranges, violet, indigo… either streamers to attract children's attention, or dancers that decorate their instruments for more than visual appeal, just appreciating the sheer joy that their body can manage to create a rhythm in the beat of a drum.

And for such a young lad like Jackson Frost Overland, it couldn't be any more than sheer luck that he is so young to live in this thrill. His mother, Clara, currently carrying her second, leads him around by hand, as their father collects more firewood from the other side of the village. He saw the sadness in his father's eyes, but brightened again as his young son promised to tell him about every detail.

And Jack has a knack for details.

"Mama, look! What's that?" He points to a wood-carver, and Clara surpasses a chuckle. Her son is always the one to question, to ask, to discover.

"It's a wood-carver, dear. Would you like to take a look? I'll just be in the opposite stall – don't accept anything that isn't worth money, okay?" He nods, as she sighs with relief. Her heart is with her son, but her eyes are on anything that can soothe her aching belly. His hand leaves her, as he runs off, only a smile on his lips.

Rushing into the plain-looking stall, his brown eyes widen in excitement, breathing shaky and jittery.

Although he is much too small to see all the way up, from what his eyes capture, utterly takes his breath away. The carvings range from painted toys of white bears and black horses to small intricate music-boxes with the delicate image of a humming birds.

_(One catches his attention briefly – it's nothing more than a staff with gnarled bark and slight frosted tips, and he gets the feeling that it's got more power if held in the hands who can wield a weapon against a sword without the fear of getting cut, but it's only brief and doesn't matter much to a child.)_

"Can I help you, young'un?" Brown eyes look upwards, seeing an elderly man with golden-framed specks. Although he looks frail, his body held up with a metal walking-stick with a circular end _(though curiously has stars and the moon carved into the wooden frame), _the smile shows that he's more than capable of holding his own.

Jack grins, lop-sided and showing his white teeth, "nah! I'm just looking around, really! This stuff is really cool! Cool as in good. My mama always gets confused to what I mean, says I love the winter too much. Cold's fun! Don't you agree, mister?"

The elder chuckles at his enthusiasm, patting his brown-haired head. "I quite agree. Tell me, son. Do you believe in magic?" He sits down on an old wooden chair – quite worn down.

"Who doesn't, mister? Magic is everywhere, right? That's what Mama says brought her and Papa together. Magic is everything fun, right?"

Children often gave the most straight-forward answers. Also asking a lot of questions. And Jack is the prime example of both, accompanied by sparkling eyes. The elderly man took note of this as something special.

"I also agree to that. But, also answer me this. Do you know what magic _is? _Can you touch it? Wrap it up tight?"

His answer was not the one expected. Jack cupped his chin with chubby fingers, sometimes raking one of his dirty palms through his tousled hair. He then shrugged, grinning. "Does it matter what it is? Isn't it for everyone? That's why everything had magic, right? So it's shared! My Mama's next baby is gonna be made from magic, so that's good!"

"You sound like a good friend of mine. Seeing wonder in everything." He chuckled, glancing down, "what's your name, son?"

"Jack! Well, Jackson, but I prefer Jack. I don't like long words. They bore me." Jack grinned again, "all this stuff here is really nice, mister? Did you make it all yourself? Or do your hands ache and you get people to help you?"

Many people overheard that part, thinking the boy was being rude to the older boy. Some scoffed, others sighed. Jack's mother failed to notice, too enthralled in a new remedy that was quick and easy to prepare.

"Sometimes I do, yes. I may be old, Jack, but not useless." He chuckled, adjusting his spectacles. "Maybe one day, you'll learn that age is just a number. The heart of a child still beats, no matter how tight your skin gets."

"Huh? What do you mean?" He just shakes his head, leaving Jack ever-more confused.

"Never you mind. Although, I don't suppose you could do me a favour, could you dear boy?" Jack tilts his head again.

"My mama said I'm not supposed to accept anything not worth money." He retold.

"I wasn't going to leave you unpaid, son." And from his hand, he draws something Jack has _never _seen – a single gemstone. Blue, shiny, almost _frosty. _It's worth more than Jack's little house upon the hill, and he's enchanted by it. "If you can go get me a few camellias from the flower stall round the stall with all the ribbons, then I'll give this to you. Fair?"

He ponders this. "If my Mama comes calling, will you tell her I'm doing you a favour?" The man nods with a smile. "Then sure, mister! I'll be back soon!"

And as quickly as he came, Jack darts off with fast feet – wearing no shoes at all. His toes are flecked with small scratches, the bottom of his trousers slightly torn. He races through each stall, through the crowds of people – not caring for the multitude of ethnicity mixing and conversing, not for the loud bellows at the portable bar, or for the rainbow-coloured dancers with foamed smiles and expertly shown flying feet.

"…Wait, what do camellias look like?" He stops at the flower stall, "uh, I think Mrs. Pitchiner grows them in her garden… though she hasn't been out in a while. Hm. Are they white, maybe?"

He looks around, seeing nobody at the stall. Odd. Usually there's at least a bell to ring (he should know – being small enough to hide has gave way to some great pranks at the bakers known as _the Warren). _He calls out a few times, but only hears the distant sound of shuffling, like small feet.

"Maybe he wouldn't mind daisies? My Papa grows them, but… oh, that stone was so cool! Mama would love it!"

"Can I help you?" He jumps and almost falls over, stumbling forward.

"Ah!" Jack exclaims, snapping his head around and glaring, "hey! That wasn't funny! Don't sneak up on me like that!" Jack snapped, before blinking. "Hey, wait, who are you? You don't own this stall, right?"

The voice – actually turning out to be a girl around his age – merely giggled. "No, silly! I work for the woman who owns it!"

Jack raised a brow. "So in a way, you kind of own it?"

Again, she shook her head. Upon a better look, Jack found her… weird. Her eyes were _huge, _purple. Almost like a weird kind of gem. Her skin was tawny (though he didn't find that weird), and her hair was long, in a braid down to her waist. But the weirdest thing was the _colours. _Her hair had a multitude of yellow, green and purple, accompanied by a feathered headdress of gold and green feathers. Her arms and bare feet had golden bangles dangling, her dress blue with green center and covered in shimmering sparkles. She looked more like an exotic bird than a flowerstall assistant.

"No. My mistress bought me a year ago. So I don't own it." She smiles at him again, lips quirk in a crooked, but sweet smile, arms behind her back and peering _ever so close._

Jack has to back away. This girl knows no meaning of boundaries. But the information baffles him.

"Are you a slave?" She nods, still smiling, pulling back.

"Yeah! Well, more like worker." The girl tells him, before her feet swivel her around, back at the flowers. Her braid swished too, the tip tied with a band with feathers. "You wanted camellias, right? For your mother? Or father? Sister? Brother?"

"Huh?" Any child 'working' is strange a concept, but maybe it's different with a moving market. "Oh… uh, no. For the wood carver over there."

She smiles, "oh! He's ever so kind! He loves hummingbirds, you know! And, oh, the designs he makes are beautiful! And…" She goes off on a tangent, Jack isn't even listening anymore. Just a curt nod.

"…and one time he even- oh, here you are!" She handed him a bunch, "and don't worry about the pay! It's actually a delivery I was just about to make, but if he's sent you, I get the afternoon off!"

"…Girls talk way too much." He mumbled, the girl suddenly turning to face him with an oblivious gaze. "Nothing. Just, thanks. I guess." Feeling silence enter the room, Jack clears his throat, scuffing his feet against the floor. "Uh, what's your name…?" He tilted his head.

She shrugs. "No idea!"

He stares at her. "…What?"

The girl folds her arms – it's only know that Jack realizes how short she is – and sighs. "My mistress only ever calls me 'girl', and I don't remember my parents at all. So I don't have one. Unless it's 'girl'. Seriously! It's always, 'you, girl, get the next order!' or 'don't poke your hands in their mouth to look at their teeth again, girl!'. See?"

Jack chuckles dubiously, "uh, what do you mean-"

"Oh my days, your teeth are gorgeous!" Her small hands pries his mouth open, brown eyes widening, "oh, they're like freshly fallen snow! Beautiful! White and minty! Oh, it's gorgeous!" She rambles on about words he'd never even _heard _of. Lateral incisor? Molar? Wasn't that some kind of animal?

"Enough!" He breaks away from her, "stop poking in my mouth! It's annoying!" Jack splutters, the girl with no name gasping.

"Oh! I'm really sorry! I just love to look at teeth! They're one of the best parts of the body, I reckon! Especially when they're all white and shiny..." Her eyes clouded with mirth, hands clasped together and sighing giddily.

"Hey, I'm kind of like that with snow!" She blinks, looking at him full of question, "oh, I really love it when it snows! Snowball fights, sledding - all the good stuff! But it's horrible when they put salt down to melt it." He grumbled, folding his arms, "it's no fun when people hate it. I wanted to go skating, too..." Jack grumbles, remembering his mother's constant worrying. She never let him out past the small wooded area, where his father collected wood for the fire...

"I never get to see snow much! My mistress always makes me travel around when it's sunny - says it's good for her plants." The girl with no name tells him, grinning. "Say, are we friends? I've never had a friend before, you're the first one! Actually, I don't talk to people all much."

"I couldn't tell."

"Hm?"

"Nothing. But yeah, sure. I'll be your friend! Though... the market's only here for today, right?" He sighs sadly. She joins is crestfallen look, "and I've got to go in a minute. So we can't really be friends unless we talk more, right? That's what my Papa says, 'specially when he's tilling the fields. That friends need to talk about stuff before you can see if you're good friends."

"...Oh." Her face falls, looking down.

Jack cups his chin, before snapping his fingers - promptly startling her. "I've got it!"

"What do you mean? Can you make time stop?" She asks excitedly, as he shakes his head slowly.

"Uh... no. But! Sneak out tonight! I'll meet you by the flowerbeds - you always pass 'em when you enter Burgess. The orange and pink ones? Just at the edge of town?" Her eyes sparkle with recognition, but twiddles her thumbs.

"But what if I'm caught? I mean, my mistress always goes to bed early, but..."

"C'mon, have a little fun for once! I'll take full blame if she's mad at you, don't worry! What do you say? When the stars come out. I'll be there." He smiles, and she returns it. How can she say no to such perfect teeth?

"...Okay! I'll be there!" And as Jack smiles, she almost faints. Does this count as a date? She's just shy of seven, but many girls get married within ten years senior of her age, so it's not a bad move to start now.

And then he hears his mother calling. With a sheepish grin, he takes the camellias, bidding her a big wave farewell, before rushing off. She holds a hand to her heart, feeling her skin warm up a little.

* * *

Jack lays in his small bed, admiring the blue gemstone he got from the wood-carver. It's the colour of winter - ice blue, retaining the chill of fluffy snow. The sun pierces through it, giving his wall a wintry sheen. More colour than his cheeks. He'd always had pale skin - many of his neighbours thought he was ill, but he was just a cold kid. Not in the sense that he brushed people off, he just had an infinitive for the cold.

The wood-carver was nice, giving him this. He's unlike most adults, having a twinkle in his eye, like him. Almost like a child. Jack likes it, when adults are like that. The ones that can have fun, despite their age, despite how old they get, and are getting. If more adults had fun, he reckons, the world wouldn't be so boring as you got older.

His room is small, but his imagination is big. He has no paper to draw on, but his father managed to find him a pencil with lead, and Jack wasted no time in filling his room with drawings of childish splendour. Snowflakes, sleighs, deer. Trees, flowers, leaves falling down. He's no artist, but that never stops Jack. A small box rests on his tiny dresser (filled with folded, if patched up, clothes) with things he's collected - string, rope, acorns, concurs, a small carving knife. Anything he can use.

The clock tower in the middle of the village chimes, and Jack slowly puts it on the side. His mother retired early to her bedroom earlier, the spices and herbal tea that she'd gotten from the market making her drowsy (to which his father and he were immensely grateful for), his father resting beside her after a hard days work.

Small hands lift up his window, as he clambers out - falling onto the evergreen with a slight 'oof'. He's left a note for his mother (on the lid of his box), for when she worries.

He pockets the gem stone, racing under cover of the night sky. He avoids the paved streets of trees and rose-bushes - they're dotted with oil lamps, and someone is bound to see him. Instead, he follows the lights of the houses. Some can afford oil lamps, others go for the comfort and warmth of a candle.

He wonders if the girl will come. If she will be brave enough. She's weird and eccentric, but Jack likes that. He hopes she does.

Burgess isn't exactly a huge village, but to him, it feels like an eternity before he gets to the flower patch. And to his surprise, she's sat down on the log, facing the far-off lake. Her braid is still done, the headdress still in place. The only difference is that she is no longer wearing the white apron.

"Hey." He whispers, even if nobody is around. Maybe the watchman sometimes patrols around, but he's still got that broken leg, and Jack doesn't know if there's a replacement.

The girl turns around, still smiling. "Hello!" She hushes excitedly.

"You came." e notes, as she nods.

"I didn't get caught! Oh, it was the best, most heart-racing thing I've ever done! See, I had to wait till my mistress went to sleep, but I had hidden near the fireplace!" She had the soot stains on her cheeks and hands to prove that, "and I crept out of the window, and ran as fast as I could! Oh, it was simply amazing!"

Jack cannot help but laugh, and she joins in with one of her own. It's a mix between a gentle chirp of a bird, and a chime of a bell. He finds it quite pretty, but doesn't say so.

"So!" She chirps happily, "are we going to become friends? What do friends do? Make flower crowns?"

"Blah. No _way._" He scoffs. "Boys don't make them. They're for girls."

She puts her hands on her hips, and pouts. "Nothing wrong with boys liking flowers! One boy I saw _loves _them! He bought a whole bunch! He had kind of grayish hear for a young boy, though."

Jack knows who that is immediately. "That's probably Aster. His family owns a bakery - the Warren. Makes great chocolate, 'specially at Easter. He loves painting the cakes." He snickers, "and its great fun pulling on his ears."

She gasps, "that's mean!"

"Nope," he pops on the 'p', grinning cheekily, not a care in the world, "it's more fun, playing pranks!"

She bats his arm with the back of her hand, smile wide, "for you, maybe!"

And their laughter quietened into childish voices, beginning to talk the night away. She speaks of her many travels - of countries with exotic fashions, high-rise palaces and men with the ability to control snakes with the whim of musical talent. About dancers with tambourines and drums, about their spinning dresses and how they catch the sunlight, how their earrings gleam and glow. She demonstrates with the clumsiness and heart of a novice, closing her eyes and completely free.

His life is much more simple - living on a small farm with his father and mother, about the stories and cuddles before he goes to bed. About the pranks he pulls, the school he likes to avoid, the drawings on the wall. About how one time the chickens escaped all over town, and they went without eggs for three weeks. He imitates with voices and actions, and she cannot help but giggle with girlish adoration.

He envies the places she gets to experience. She's jealous of the warmth and security he possesses. Yet that never leaves their lips.

Instead, they look to the sky.

"Stars?" She breathes, as he silently nods.

"Shooting stars. They say if you make a wish, it'll come true." And of course, it doesn't, but maybe there's a magic somewhere. Not in the starry breach that falls onto the earth below, nor in the lights that radiate a surreal aura. But in the glistening that dances over their eyes, in the brightness of their smiles, and how much belief they put into that one wish.

And amidst all the merriment and jovial serenity, their small hands had joined.

"Did you make a wish?" He asks, brown eyes locking with purple ones. They're big, but sort of pretty.

"Mm-hm. Did you?" Brown eyes may be plain, but she actually quite likes them now.

"Yeah, of course."

It's an untold rule that you must never tell what you wished for, otherwise it won't come true. But then again, maybe they never needed to.

Because for the moment, the summer air steals their gasps into wingless dreams, soaring on the skies above and mixing with the lights of the stars that's light twirl with the twilight breeze.

* * *

The market leaves early that morning, whilst Jack is still slumbering away in his small bed and the sleepy village barely cracks a yawn. The gentle sunlight filters through the slight-open window, a gentle smile on his young face. The birds sing their morning whistles, a slight grunt and a cart heard in the distance. He barely bats an eyelid.

The girl left quickly after their wishes had been made, with nothing but sweet words and a promise that they'd meet again someday. And although she left without hearing his answer, he internally promised the same thing in his heart and mind.

Jack curls up a little more, his hand in a tight fist around something. The gemstone is no longer in his pocket, but in the box. He placed it there when he got back, with half-lidded eyes and heavy footsteps.

In his hand, is a single - slightly frayed - feather. Jade green at the start, the middle slightly frayed with tints of dark blue, and then tipped with a beautiful pink, like the stretch of pink clouds.

His fist tightens around it, bringing it closer to his face. And his smile widens, showing his white teeth. His mother can be heard humming in the kitchen, as she prepares a breakfast for yet another day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: **Snow Dust and Feather Lights.  
**A/N: **I utterly adore writing in this style. And yes! I did decide to keep this story going! I know it's not going to be a very long one - around six or seven chapters - but I hope to make the chapters long and enjoyable! If there's anything I could improve on plotwise, it would be appreciated greatly! Oh, and as for character inclusions - keep a real eye out for them. There's on in particular that _will _be playing a big part. But this is mainly Jack and Tooth's story, so it will focus on them. I hope to include more character to both of them in this chapter - this is a time skip, so they are older. I really hope you enjoy! Please review - comments are appreciated! :D

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**-Chapter Two**

**- In which time apart does not necessarily cause people to grow apart -**

Seasons come and pass, the snow melts and forevergreen shoots poke through the once frozen soil.

Little changes in six years, and yet such a dramatic turn is had. Rouge cheeks and plump faces flesh out and become mature, hands once grabbing cookies and weaving flower crowns are now gathering cotton and spinning new dresses for the summer time. Either is carefully drawn out, crafted, perfectly measured to adorn the women's curves, either ensuring comfort and no beauty, or visual appeal and a test of her endurance in a corset, tightening her lung space.

Tilled fields now bear the fruits of their labour - in both a literal and metaphorical sense of achievement and relief that the back-breaking working ordeal is now over. They won't go hungry next winter, not like the last two years. And with the every-favourable market of the _Guardian's Parade _coming into toe in a few days, their hearts skip beats, eye shine a little brighter than normal.

And for Jack? Well...

"Jackson Overland! You get down from that tree right now! Mama's gonna have a head-fit with you again if you get stuck!"

He's now a proud brother to six year old Emma Overland. With her hands on her hips, brown hair and eyes, she's the spitting image of him through-and-though. Though her no-nonsense attitude can clash with his desire for fun and games, they unabashedly adore each other, him being the doting big-brother, getting her whatever he can to brighten up that smile.

He grins cockily, now fourteen years old and shy of manhood, his cast between his childlike persona and the desire to be more independent. "Calm down, Em! You wanted some apples, right? So I'm getting them for you!" He crouches with expertise, toes curling around the rough bark of the large apple tree they have outback. It was planted the day Jack was born, being the apple of his father's eye.

Emma sighs heavily, used to her brother's antics. "Jack, I love you and all, but you're drive for always making me happy is gonna kill you someday."

"Like I'd let you be the death of me, Em! I'm gonna stay here and annoy you forever!" Emma just shakes her head, fixing a slight crease on her otherwise neatly pressed dress. However, she cannot stay annoyed for long - instead matching his grin with her own.

"Ah, alright! But get down from there, okay? Just get the..." Her head turns, seeing the crowds of people. "Oh? What's with all the crowds?" She turned her head back to her brother, "Jack, what's going on?" Emma tilts her head, watching with nothing but fascination. She's utterly naive. He groans a little, rolling his eyes at her obliviousness.

"Em, I've told you about it before, remember? It's the market that comes every six years. It's got all kinds of stuff, you know! You'd really like it there!" He grins at her, but she cuts him off.

"Oh! I remember, now!" Emma claps her hands, eyes shining with the recognition. Memory has never been the best in favour for her, unless it's stingy details that get him in trouble. "Is that where you once met that girl you told me about? The girl who likes teeth?"

He pauses. "...Yeah. But that was six years ago. She probably doesn't even remember me." The golden bands, the quirky smile, the long plait with oddly fallen feathers caught in the strands from her headdress, adorned in green and blue feathers. And those big, bright, purple eyes. She's just a childhood phantom now, nothing that really matters. She didn't even have a name, anyway.

Emma huffs, smirking, "who could _forget _you? Anyway, I'm gonna go get my shawl, I'll be back in a bit!" She darts into the house, Jack frowning.

"It's Summer, though!" Though he hates the heat, it's not _that _cold out! Emma has always hated any slight chill, though. So it doesn't surprise him, as much as mildly irritates him.

With her cream shawl that's just a little too big now wrapped around her small shoulders, Emma grabs her brother's hand, taking a bite out of the apple that she begrudgingly (though gratefully) accepts. They walk down the same familiar road, as they have done for a million times, and will do for a million more.

* * *

"Wow! All this stuff is so cool! Why can't they just live here, Jack?" Emma squeals happily,Jack sighing. As much as he loves his sister, she's got the attention span the equivalent of him sitting down and doing nothing without getting bored.

He just shrugs, looking around. Whilst the dancers and trinkets are interesting to look at, Jack's not too interested in them anymore. Most of them are black and grey at this one stall - he makes a note to stay away from there.

He's never been a fan of dark carvings. They give him too many nightmares to count. And Jack's often scared they'll come true. 'Course, he'll never confide this information to anybody - nightmares apparently stop becoming a threat when you're older.

The stalls haven't changed from their last visit. Still vibrant, still cramming up every space in each row, each stall owner calling out goods on different herbs and jewellery from far off exotic lands, forged by the most skilled blacksmiths and that potion will instantly heal gout or make your eyes turn emerald-green. He doesn't care for the details, but their efforts are cute.

Jack's looking at a lone performer - quite a short man, but with a sense that you don't want to mess with him - somehow making golden dust (or sand?) levitate into shapes for the children, - rabbits, snowflakes (he finds that appealing), flowers, dinosaurs - when he feels Emma tug at his sleeve.

"Oh, oh, Jack! Look! A woodcarver!"

He paused. _No way..._

Jack's gaze catches a familiar twinkle, and he cannot help but crack a smile. His sister runs over to the man, Jack following with much eager. He even surpasses her giddy running, before stopping with a skid over the bare, dusty ground, the older man not looking up from his spectacles and currently small carving.

"Hi, there!" Emma greets him, "this stuff is really amazing! Oh! A hummingbird!" She smiles, glancing at one of the smaller, older toes. It's a hummingbird, but it's not - the wings are there, but the feathers are like emeralds and face almost seem childlike, with the nose like a woodpecker, one eye purple and one eye ice blue.

The old man chuckles, shaking his head and looking at her. "It's not a hummingbird, child. It's a faerie."

"Oh! You mean like the little people who have those little wands? Those kinds?" She adored fairy-tales, especially about the petite beauties who fluttered around the forests, frolicking and leading children like herself into a blissful day.

"Not quite. There are many stories that give that perception, but these are the real thing." He tells her, his voice holding untold wisdom. Jack is almost reminded of the stories where the old man is the key to a mystery, holding a sense of wonder and intriguing alert. But those are just stories.

"Faeries aren't real though, mister! I've never seen one!" She tells him matter-of-factly, hands on her hips.

He tuts, shaking his head. "You have little faith, my child. If you've never seen one, how does that make them not real? I heard legends about them here, too. That's why I carved her." He gestures a hand, pointing. "Especially the one about the feather lights."

"...Feather lights?" Emma and Jack share words of bewilderment, the woodcarver's eyes widening.

"You've never seen them? But you live right by the lake, do you not?"

Jack digs his foot into the grass, scoffing boyishly. "Ha! They never let us go out into the woods. Not even the adults do. They're too afraid. And they won't even tell us why! I've been there hundreds of times. Worst I've seen are rabbits."

"But rabbits can be really nice, Jack! Don't you always call Ast-"

"Emma, be quiet." Jack rubbed his temples, though couldn't hold back a boyish grin. "So, what are these 'feather lights', mister?"

"Feather lights," he begins, Emma and Jack's ears perked, "are nothing more than a cover for the faeries of this land." Emma opens her mouth to question, but the woodcarver pats her head, chuckling, "and yes, faeries do exist. Perhaps not in the form of frolicking faes that cheer and giggle, but they have a higher-intended purpose than what people give them credit for. Just like children, they have so much potential. They dwell everywhere that there is a shred of sunlight, in any condition. They're younger than the mountains of the East, yet younger than the Northern wind."

"How come we can't see them, then? The closest we ever get is seeing fireflies." Jack grins, as Emma yet again has to define things.

"My child, have a little imagination. Fireflies do their intended purpose - they live. There is no use not questioning something that you cannot, even if you meet the person, truly understand. Explore every inch of those questions. Then you find yourself with a memory of a journey, of a story to tell. Is that not greater than any answer?"

That silences her, sitting down on the earthy ground, though Jack hoists her into his lap. His mother would have a headfit if he saw the mud on her new dress. His lips perk a smile.

"Understand, now?" She nods, "good. Now, let's see, where was I... ah, yes. Faeries. See, the ones that live there originally weren't as small as that there carving. They were malevolent beauties, covered in a multitude of beautiful feathers, standing at around six feet tall. Any man who saw them were either blessed or bewitched. But don't let their beauty confuse you - they were fierce warriors of the skies, especially in the golden ages."

"W-warriors? Girl fighters?" The statement is so _foreign _in this day and age.

"_Women _warriors. A little girl such as yourself couldn't hold a sword." Jack teases, poking her nose - a habit he's picked up over the years. Emma frowns, but says nothing.

"Size doesn't amount to strength, you know. Even the smallest of us can wield more strength than a giant." And to that, Emma sticks her tongue out at him, but the woodcarver continues his story. "Those faeries were originally called the 'Sister's of Flight.' Immortal warriors. They fought not with metal swords, though they could if they so desired - but with a blade as delicate as the wings on their backs, as thin as a feather. However, after one of them died, they all die. But the only child to have ever been bore from one - though, I do not know where they reside, if they even do exist - but what I do know, is their birth helped their souls reside in smaller forms. Like this little one here."

Although the story was wondrous, enchanting, Jack raises a brow. "What do they have to do with the feather lights by the lake?"

"Well, my boy," he chuckles, "whenever a faerie dances near that lake, the moonlight on the lake causes their feathers to light up. Some say for a warning, but I think they're just dancing."

Emma's eyes are bright, brighter than the usual hazelnut brown. It's full of mirth, of innocence - and for once, she does not double check his meanings. The woodcarver chuckles, "well, why don't you take this one, here? She's quite old now. Over thirteen, I'd say. No luck trying to sell her."

"R-really?" He nods, Emma's grin widens, taking the small faerie in her grasp, "she's so cute! Thanks, mister!"

"Her eyes are really big." Jack notes, hand going to his torn pocket. "How much for it, anyway? I've got some coins on me-" He stops when the carver holds up a wrinkled hand.

"I said she could keep it. Although, if you want to repay me, you could deliver this to a friend of mine for me, lad." He holds up a glass bottle, cork in the top - filled with golden sand. There aren't any beaches near Burgess - it's more in the center of the country, bordered by thick greenery. Jack finds it saddening when his father has to leave to continue his work-of-trading out on the shores, but there's food on the table because of it, so he begrudgingly let's him go.

He still hasn't told Emma about how he used to be the one to hold his mother, whilst she cried in his small arms.

"Where's this from?" Jack takes it in his hand, peering at it closely.

A wistful chuckle is all Jack hears, along with a simple "from the dreams of children. Now, run along to the middle of the market, by the dances - there should be a shorter man performing tricks to a group of children. His name is Sanderson. Though he can't talk, so you'll need to approach him rather than call on him."

He can't talk? How did he manage? Jack keeps these thoughts to himself, taking Emma's hand and walking off. He doesn't notice the feathers falling to the ground near a post, nor the long black braid that swishes away.

* * *

"Sanderson... hah. Wouldn't it be easier to just call the guy Sandy?" A whistle escapes his lips, glancing around the centre of the market. He can tell this is more dedicated to those who have spare change, as it is filled with things that even his father could only dream of selling.

A bread maker, with many different shapes and sizes (is one of those French? His father bought it home as a treat, once) houses right next to a candlestick maker - not the kind they use for lighting the house, but the type that has different scents and colours. At one point Jack smells spice and apple, but Emma drags him away before he can even inquire about buying it. Gem encrusted jewellery with ringlets of gold and silver that even the light of the stars cannot hope to match, finest silk spun from the hands of gods themselves. It's all here.

But the small golden man, is not.

"Jack," Emma whines, "we've been here for ages and that Mr. Sanderson isn't here... and I don't like the way that lady is looking at us."

"Lady? What lady, Emma?" He cranes his head around, only catching a glimpse. A woman as old as his mother, with eyes igniting the eclipse and hair as dark as night. He feels a shrill shiver run along his spine, but says nothing on that, only a mere sigh. "She's probably just looking at us funny because we're dirtier than everyone else."

Thieves. Scoundrels. Pick-pockets. He's heard it all before.

"Just stay close to me then, Emma. Okay?" And she complies with a firm nod, gripping his arm tight. He could almost hear her childish whines, burying her head in his slightly-torn sleeve.

A few more minutes, and Jack is close to giving up on the search - when he spots something similar to words he heard.

Pudgy hands clap in adoration and praise, high-pitched voices squealing for more. A small hand waves in an intricate curl, a wave of sand swirling around his fingertips. It's not as bright as the sun, but not as dim as the sand of the desert. It's... the sunset clouds! Almost a fiery orange! So many shapes... stars, horse and carts... _hummingbirds. _His hand almost goes to his pocket, but is interrupted when Emma tugs at his arm.

"Jack, that's him!" She grins, dragging him along suddenly - almost tripping over!

"Wh- _hey! _Emma, slow down!" She pokes her tongue out at him, grinning.

"_Noooope!"_

"Is that so?"

"Mm-hm!" He raises a brow, dons a cheeky grin - before suddenly scooping her up, heaving her over his shoulder. "Jack!" She squeals in annoyance, batting her fists softly against his back, "Jack Frost, you put me down this instant!" And like any loving brother, he ignores her request, only grinning at her fruitless attempts to free herself and carries her over to the display. Acting casual is his specialty. The travelers stare, the locals do not - much too enthralled in the displays of colour and promise.

At a closer view, 'Sanderson' is but a small man, not much bigger than his kid sister. He rivals that of the monks who write scriptures, praise peace among the lands - his father showed him a painting about them one time, explaining who they were, when he had traveled overseas. Sandy hair and golden eyes, he may well have been sculpted from the grains. And yet... he has a dreamy quality in his eyes, a softness to his expression.

"You're Sandy, right?" Jack put's his free hand on his hip, tilting his head.

"Jack, put me down!"

The small man nods, gesturing for him to come and sit. As Jack does as he's told (one of the few times he does not protest), he pulls out the container of the golden sand, making his eyes twinkle with a dreamy aura. Sanderson takes it gratefully, and pours the dusty grains into his small hand. Jack raises an eyebrow, but it soon doubles into wide eyes of shock, as he bends the air to his will, making the sand around him levitate. For Emma, he wields images of flowers and a magical spring, things most small girls would adore.

And for Jack? He creates nothing but the image of a Winter wonderland. Snowflakes and snowballls, pine trees dusted with the freshly fallen snow of the crisp colder season. That's no surprise. The boy can travel miles with bare feet in that kind of weather.

Emma nudges his side knowingly, and that's when he catches the sight. The long black braid, again swishing away.

"What..." The children turn their heads, as Jack suddenly shoots up with a resolve to save the world. "Wait, I know that..." His eyes widen, and slightly bounces on the balls of his feet. "Emma, come on! Follow me!"

She barely has time to protest, her older brother all-of-a-sudden sprinting forth towards who-knows-where, as she stumbles behind to follow.

Sanderson simply shakes his head with a smile, conjuring up more images to delight the eyes of the youthful and innocent.

* * *

"Hey, you! Wait up a second!"

To the naked eye and any that bother to stare at his flying feet and frantic calls, Jackson Overland may seem to be nothing but a hasty young hellion selfishly trying to run and grasp the air too thin to grab within a single palm.

Of course, Jack never chases after what he cannot see. His father teaches that to him every time they go fishing. His mother may have different words, but she performs it in the way of hugs and nose-kisses.

But all life-lessons aside, Jack chases after the long braid that conceals itself in the shadows. He narrowly misses broken glass on the dusty ground, barges past through the admirers of the fine silk and woven cloth of one store that sells clothing too bright for a farm town, either ignorant of the glares and protests as he rushes past or chooses to remain oblivious. Either way, his mind only has one set mode: find her.

Even if that means ignoring the protests of the huffing little sister that runs after him.

Eventually, Jack finds that even his lungs needs to breath, and has to stop for a break. Breathing heavily, he rubs his arms, walking around and dimly takes in the surroundings. It's the edge of the market - where everything is quiet, calm. There are no flashy colours, nor loud bellowing salesmen garbed as a living mannequin. Just simple stone statues standings silently.

"Hello?" He calls gently, looking around. Upon closer inspection, they seem more like _ice. _He hears a humming, too gruff to be a young one, and peers in. "Anyone here?"

Jack gently dances around the sculptures/statues/engraved models (he can't really decide what to call them - he's heard so many fancy words from his father it's hard to tell what's what), gently peering around the opening of the stall.

But he sees nobody.

And that's when he realises. Eyes widen, he sharply cranes his head. "Emma?" No answer. "Emma!"

He hopes to hear a scuffle of feet. Chiding, lecturing - just her voice.

But he hears nothing.

And that scares him to no end.

* * *

"Jack! Jack..."

Young Emma Overland rubs her arms, her shawl barely enough to keep in the warmth. She wishes she'd gone with her knitted coat, but her mother would have thrown a headfit. Though it's not so much the cold than the chill running up her spine. She's a little girl lost in a sea of strangers, and the only guidance to her brother was his fast feet.

And she can't even see those anymore. "Jack! Are you here? Come on, stop playing tricks on me..."

She tries to frown. Tries to look annoyed, tries to look irritated with her older brother. She tries to be more mature than is expected of young ladies her age and get praised from her elders whilst her brother snickers in the corner, earning him a backhand from her mother.

But Emma is just a little girl, so finds herself angrily biting back her tears. "You idiot... stop tricking me now... come out..."

She trembles a little, "Jack...! Jack, where are you?" And her paces are quicker, as if trying to scramble out of a rope-bound knot; no matter how frantic you try to untie it, it just seems to get more tangled.

It's getting darker - mother will be expecting the two home soon. She's made broth with the potatoes that are growing in the farmland. She's supposed to be the one chopping up the carrots tonight...

"Jack..."

Dragging her now-dusty shoes, she sits on a wooden crate, bringing her knees up and resting her chin on them, snivelling. Her nose is too blocked to recognize the calming scents around her, as most of the stalls would be packed up by now...

She closes her eyes, not too sure what to do. Just fall asleep... maybe her mother would come calling. The market would be here for the next three days, so this would be the first place to come after all of their friend's houses... maybe the village would organize a search party, or maybe-

"Are you alright?"

Lashes open, Emma staring up at a kind face with a kind smile. One that isn't all too familiar (and yet, strangely is), but radiates a kindness akin to her very own mother.

She sniffs, wiping under her nose, "are you talking to me?"

The smiling face giggles. "Well, is there any other little girl crying near my mistress's stall? What's your name, sweetheart? Are you hurt? Where's your parents?"

"M-my mother says I'm not allowed to talk to..." Oh, what does she have to lose. "My name is Emma... I'm not hurt or anything, but my brother ran off, saying he had to find someone. I couldn't keep up with him." Emma laughs a little, embarrassed. "Sorry, should I go?"

"Your brother?" The girl ignores the other question, "shall we see if we can find him? I don't have a name, but I work right in this stall here. If my mistress hears I have hurt anyone, I'll be beaten for it, so rest assured, I mean no harm. Especially to a little child."

She offers a hanky, which Emma first sniffs (hibiscus flowers? Her mother loves those), then wipes her eyes and blows her nose, then giving it back to the girl. She looks more like a dancer than a flower-stall helper...

"What do you mean 'you don't have a name'?" Emma suddenly asks, then covers her mouth, "sorry, I should have asked..." This girl had been so kind to her, too...

But she smiles warmly. "I was never given one. Now, shall we find your brother, Emma?" She holds out her hand, and Emma notices just how _small _it is. Her brother's hands are quite large for his age. She thinks they'd be a perfect fit. But for now, she has to sait the gap, her childishly chubby palms grabbing onto the warmth.

"Thank-you." Emma says, though her shakes do not stop.

She looks down, "are you cold? I can understand that. We usually go around to the warmer climates, but it's quite cold this time of year! Actually, there was one boy I met so many years ago that loved the cold! I thought I saw him again today, but I'm not too sure!"

And Emma flinches. "...What was his name?"

"...I don't actually remember." She chuckles sheepishly, as Emma gives her a look. "He said it so fast, always rushing! A lot of things happened to me the last few years, too! But, oh..." She sighed happily, eyes clouding with a fond memory, "he had the brightest eyes that I've ever seen, and even _more brilliant **teeth!**"_ She squeals a little, barely restraining herself from bouncing on the balls of her feet.

"You're really funny." Emma looks around for her brother, seeing most of the stall starting to pack away for the night. "This place is here for a few days, right? Then they go away for six years? Why not just stay here permanently?"

The golden bangles on her ankles jingle together as they walk, the girl chuckling, "we can never reside in one place. Our home is along the winds of magic. At least, that is what dear North says!"

"North? Winds of magic? What...?" Evidently confused, she just taps her nose mysteriously, continue to walk. "Oh, yes, what's your brother's name? It just occurred to me that I did not ask! That would definitely help in finding him."

"Oh, his name? It's-"

"Emma!"

The two look up, only seeing a blur of sparkling eyes and dirtied, dusty clothing running toward them. "Jack!" Emma roughly let's go of her hand, sprinting with the same eagerness. "Jack, you idiot! Why did you run off?!"

She latched onto his waist, he bends down and hugs her with a firmness like he would never let her go anywhere alone, not for long. She begins to weep again - _childish _sobs - ones she would scare admit too. She has the appearance of a china doll - pale faced, rosy cheeks, shoulder length chestnut hair and eyes to match, but she has the heart and maturity of a poet, finding the littlest details in everything and finding something to love or to see in a different light. And oddball, just like her brother.

"Em, Emma, hey..." He strokes her hair, rocking her, "Em, it's alright, I'm sorry... hey, I'm the big idiot, right? I'll make it up to you, promise. I always keep those, don't I?" And he cannot help but crack a smile, especially when she nods, bating his chest and mumbling weak insults.

As the clock ticks by, Emma finally finds the will to calm herself, in a mix of shaky breaths and gulps, she gives Jack a smile. "You owe me one. And I'll think of something _reeeally _good." And with a firm shake of the scared 'pinky swear', the contract is sealed. Jack picks her up in his arms, and unlike last time, she does not protest.

Purple eyes widened as they both looked at her, catching the gaze of brown; and they both freeze.

_She's that girl I met...  
Is he that boy that I..._

"...You helped my sister?"

She nods. He smiles. Crooked lips, sparkling white teeth. It's a ticket to a new memory, and she cannot help but shake.

"Heh." He chuckles, and both Emma and she tilt their heads in confusion. "Tell me - did your wish come true, feather girl?" And her grin widens - amethyst eyes shimmering with pure delight. She taps her nose and folds her arms - the many golden bangles having increased from last time, almost covering her forearm. Not all are circular - some are bound with a silver chain, some have small charms dangling from the carved loops, others are plain.

"I cannot say. That's against the rules, silly!" And she may have aged, but she has not changed. And for that, Jack feels relief. She walks over to him, eyes brighter than ever.

"Ah, my mistake, I must have forgotten." He smiles, as Emma grins. "Good to see you again, flowerstall girl."

"Likewise, winter boy."

* * *

"So, your mother was pregnant when we first met each other?"

They decide to take a detour in getting back to Jack's home - the light may be dim, but light there is, blazing orange and melting with the wispy clouds. It dyes the once-vibrantly lush blades of grass into opaque mirrors of a fiery sky, fuelling the vast stretch of sunset. It's a pleasant stroll, though a few give looks to the odd sight.

Emma has fallen asleep in Jack's arms, as the exotic eccentric has given her feathery shawl to be used as a blanket.

"Mm. Emma's six. My Ma came to the market originally to look for herbs to help settle the pain. Turns out it worked - me and Pa needed them. She's scary when she's angry. And they apparently worked - or at least, they settled the cravings."

She sighs, lips perked into a dreamy smile, "oh, it must have been wonderful when she was first-born..."

He quirks a brow. "Babies don't have teeth, though. Wouldn't you have been a little disappointed?"

"I don't _always _fawn over teeth! Yours just happened to be very white and very shiny. It had been a while since I had seen teeth not stained by the likes of sugar cane and imported desserts. My dear North is a nightmare for them."

"We kind of can't afford luxuries like sugar on a daily basis. Maybe that's why they're so white." Though he does share her view - why does the horrid appearance of teeth give one more of a social status? He shrugs the thought off - he'd rather stick to the rare apple pies his mother bakes in the holidays.

"Many peddlers and salesmen journey to sell us their choices of goods - like sugar, for an example - when we travel to the Eastern borders. But the journey is long, so we cannot stop all the time." It's almost a complaint.

"Don't you like living with the market?" She sighs, rubbing her arm.

"It can be daunting. Besides, I am there merely as a slave, remember? My mistress and I could not survive more than three days without the market close by."

"There are other ways to make money."

She laughs, a bittersweet melody - like the melody his mother sings when she is missing his father. He doesn't like that tone, looking at her with a gaze speaking of sorrow and confusion. "You are so simple-minded, as such living a simple life would lead. Money is not the essence of our survival."

"Travelling to different lands is a busy life. Fun around every corner! You can't blame me for thinking that way!" Jack protests, though keeps his voice down due to his slumbering sibling who buries her head in the crook of his neck.

Her gaze softens, reaching out and patting her cheek softly, "she is a good girl, you know. A very smart girl, too."

"We're not exactly school-literate. Pa tries his best, but... heh, it's no always the best. Still, better than most."

"I didn't mean that."

"Huh?"

She tucks a strand of brown hair behind Emma's ear, fixing her fringe for her as well. "I mean, she has the heart of someone who can tell much wisdom and poetry from a single leaf. She does not need extravagant words, only an understanding."

Jack cannot help but snort. "You _just _met her. How can you possibly know all that?"

"The same way our gut tells us who to trust and who not to trust. The same way the stars align to guide us home. It's in our blood, in the way we think. I just know. Pretty magical, right?"

He is stunned. Paralysed with shock, as if his entire bloodstream froze and left nothing but a lower lip dangling from thin cobwebs.

Moments pass.

"A-ah... right, there's my house..." He shakes his head, as she realises they have strayed from the market. The town of Burgess lays little far from the market - it is small, but paved with freshly swept streets, if dusty and made marked by travelling carts and horseshoe imprints. The market itself hides itself away in a clearing on green grass ad coveted by alpine trees, and Jack's house is on top of the sloping hill, a little away from their small farm. An oak tree resides at the top near their house, with a rope-swing.

"It's beautiful." She marvels, a gently breeze caressing her face, black locks and feathers brushed against her tawny skin. She is still so short, barely up to his shoulders, but her hair is longer and she is again covered in colourful, vibrant garb. She almost looks kind of pretty.

"Mm." She gives him a questioning look, to which he flushes, "a-ah, yeah. Um, yes... yeah, the house. It's nice. Pretty. Pretty nice." Oh, he's so glad Emma is asleep... her giggling doesn't make his blush go down - especially since his pale skin is such a stark contrast.

"You are quite shy, Jackson. Were you perhaps admiring my eyes? Or my hair?"

"Something like that." He grumbles, digging his toes into the dirt.

She cannot help but giggle feverishly at his behaviour again, before giving him a wide smile. "Will I be seeing you tonight, like the last time we met? By all of those oddly planted flowers?"

Jack glances up at her. "You remember?"

"How could I forget?" She smiles, "I've got quite a good memory, you know. Your name may have slipped, but I never forgot your smile, or your kindness to me, becoming my first friend. About your farming, about how you always scratch your nails on that one goat's horns, about how your mother collects eggs in her apron because the basket is not big enough. Shall I go on?" She grins, "or is that proof enough?"

He is still, before his boyish smirk returns. "Proof enough." He turns to walk away with Emma in his arms, but shoots a glance back, "and don't worry, I'll be there. I never break a promise." He pauses. "And yeah. You're kind of pretty." Jack winks, before turning to walk up the hill, Emma cuddling closer to him.

The stars blink down on the girl, the girl covered in feathery drapes and twinkling bangles, but she is too far gone in her racing heart to blink back up at the sky. Instead, she drinks in all the smells around her - the bakeries, the farms, the animals - the chattering sounds of the birds and the sweet smell of pine wood; and for a moment, she feels like she could be at home.

For a moment. She soon turns away from those smells, those sounds, and walks back to the travelling market, to the same life she's always lived, and will live for many years to come.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: **Snow Dust and Feather Lights.  
**A/N:** I know, I know that this is a short chapter, and I sincerely apologize. However, this does open up a new plot element as well as continue the slight angst Jack has with his father. See if you can spot the one angsty thing in the first part of this chapter. Nonetheless, I want to thank all of my lovely reviewers from the last update I did - some of them were absolutely _wonderful! _I'm honestly surprised you guys wanted me to continue this story - I thought it'd be nothing more than a quick one-shot, but your thirst for fairy-tale Guardians obvious disproves any of that theory! Anyway, I do hope you enjoy this latest instalment! *made a few edits concerning the original ending - I didn't like it, it took away from the subtlety of the story. ;.;

* * *

**Chapter 3**

**- A kiss - such a wonderful thing... is it not? -**

Jackson Frost Overland closes the wooden door, to find that his mother has fallen fast asleep on her worn ebony rocking chair.

A short sigh escapes his nose, exasperated. He walks past the cold bread on the table, past the four bowls left out, and into the tiny back-room which Emma has called her own. It's not much smaller than his - the only difference being she _insisted _that all of her items were neat and orderly. It looks more like the study of a poor doctor than a room of rest for a little girl.

He pulls back the woven brown blanket, and sets her on the mattress. It's nothing more than straw sewn into cloth, and he can see the countless needless repairs she has done over the years - but it's comfortable, so it's like jewels to them. She curls up on her side, her chestnut-brown hair sprawled out over her face. He would tuck it behind her ears, but he found that to bother her in the past, so he leaves her be. Kissing her cheeks both times and tucking her in, he leaves her be with a smile, and shuts the door with a soft 'click'.

He's not as responsible as his dear mother, nor as good at making money as his beloved father; but nobody can beat the love he holds for his beautiful sister.

He dusts down his clothes, straightens up his shirt, runs a hand through his hair.

"Ma?" He leans down and whispers, "Ma, you've fallen asleep at the table again. You don't want a bad back like last time."

Waking slowly, his dear mother opens her eyes, black circles tainting the once-young beauty. "Mm..." She rubs her eyes, clicks her back (sorting out the stiffness), and blinks slowly, bringing her son into focus. "Oh, Jack, dear. Where's Emma?"

"In bed. She fell asleep on the way back." He tells her shortly, before looking at his mother with a sorrow-filled gaze, rubbing his toes against the wooden floors, "sorry that we missed dinner. We... kind of got side-traced with things." The four bowls have nothing but bread.

She chuckles lightly, "no need to worry yourself about that. Knowing you, you got her an apple to snack on." With a sheepish grin, her suspicions are confirmed, she stands up, and clears the bowls away. "How was your trip to the market today? Did the two of you have fun?"

"Well, Emma might be a stick in the mud sometimes, but I _always _have fun, Ma. You should know that by now!" He kicks back on the chair, as she looks at him with a stern gaze, raising a single eyebrow at his behaviour. Jack chuckles. "Yeah, it was really good, actually! It's even bigger than the last time it was here. Em and me nearly got lost! Again!"

And as typical as a mother would behave, she tuts at him disapprovingly. "Oh, my dear, I told you not to run off if you saw something you found exciting! I know how easily you get side-tracked, Jackson Overland." And Jack blushes, either embarrassed to have been figured out so easily, or the fact that statement has _so much truth to it _that it made his blood turn against him and supply his cheeks with nothing but the red.

She sighs, taking off her dusty apron and hanging it by the door, "at least you're both safe and well now. I don't know what'd I do if something happened to you - either of you." He reassures her with a cocky grin, and it infects her face as well. "Did you buy anything interesting?"

"Meh, I got a few things - oh, like those spices you like to add to that stew you made last winter. Can we have that again?" He hands her the small bag, as she nods, "oh yeah, and I got Emma a hummingbird with a human-kind of face and hands on it." Okay, that last bit is a lie, but she's an adult. She'd just laugh softly at him.

His mother pauses. "...A hummingbird with hands, you say?"

"Ma, do you need your hearing tested? Yeah, I said that." Jack stands back up, not bothering to tuck the chair back under the table. "Oh, were the animals alright today? You're opening up the shop tomorrow - are you sure you don't need a hand?"

She doesn't respond for a few moments, looking out of the window. Their house as a spectacular view of the woods, blossoming with colour of the many flowers, even in the light of the moon. It's something Jack doesn't really care for. Winter - that's a different story.

"Uh... Ma? You okay?"

She shakes her head. She seems lost, as if her mind is in a different time, long before his."Just... oh, I just remembered something. Something your father told me long ago, when we were young and jovial. So very free, like you and Emma are now."

Jack walks over to her, almost a head taller. "Ma... we all know he's coming back in the fall time. I know you miss him, but it... it keeps the income in, right? And plus, he's gonna teach us all fishing then, isn't he?"

She laughs loudly, suddenly, startling him. "Ha! He's teaching _us? _Dear, don't you dare even _try _to listen whatever made-up stories he may have told to you to appear big and mighty - for I am the one who taught _him!_ He always got so frustrated that I beat him, so much that he'd challenge me everyday! It took him a _year _to admit defeat!"

His dimples in his cheeks return, his brown eyes lighting up. "Are you serious, Ma?" As she nods, he grins boyishly. "Oh jeez! Wow, that's really bad for when Pa get's back... oh! Wait till I tell Em..."

She gives him a slight backhand to the head, as he pouts at her, "give your father a little bit of pride left to show off in front of his youngest one. I wasn't supposed to say anything at all!"

And the laughter dies down, along with the once happy mood. No more words are exchanged between them; just a simple arm slung protectively around the shoulders of a sobbing, weeping, lonely mother, and the reassuring smile of a son who wants everything and everyone to have more pleasant bumps along the road.

* * *

The walk to the distant flowerbed was not as exhilarating as the last time he went to met her.

He remembers so many things that made his heart pound, and he is hoping that it would feel the same again; the rebellion, the rush as he avoided the candle light flickering through the gaps in the shutters, emerging himself in darkness as the watchmen patrolled the dusty streets and peered into the Warren - a bakery - to see if they were still offering last-minute samples.

Now, it is just a pleasant stroll. And it is one Jack, to be frank with himself, finds himself utterly bored with. The one solace is the starry breach of light above him, how they illuminate his eyes and the grass underneath his bare feet. His is not a dancer, but he would gladly put on a performance if the stars above him were the great kings and queens of his past, his fathers and mothers and the children that never saw the light of the day, so settled for night to showcase their beauty.

This thought carries him through the drag, until he reaches the same patch of flowers. And unlike last time, it is _her _that waits for _him. _

She is humming a tune he has never heard of, as she braids her hair yet again, a small smile on her pale lips.

And Jack cannot help but smirk, retracing silent steps, ghosting his way around her so that her violet eyes cannot catch him.

A voluntary snap of a twig. She turns her head, looking around. She almost looks nerved. "...Hello? Is somebody there?" He hears the unease in her voice, as she shakes a little, "maybe it was just an animal of some kind? Or a rock fell from the skies? Or perhaps-"

Out of nowhere, Jack pops out - with a wide grin, shouting, "Boo!"

"_Kya-!"_

The girl finds herself staggering back, shaking, trembling, and almost falling over if it weren't for her poised feet and strong stance. Blinking, she gets over her initial shock, frowning, "why, you! You trickster, Jackson! That was impolite, sneaking up on a maiden such as myself! Why, I ought to have you across my knee!"

He breaks down in cackles of devious laughter, and the girl with the bangles is not amused. "Ha! You should see your f-face right now!"

Her cheeks heat up, folding her arms. "I do not see the amusement in any of this."

"That's because _you _were the one being pranked." His laughter manages to cease (after a few more glares and stifled grins), "it's barely ever any fun to them at the time, but it's pretty funny as a memory."

"Memory?" Her eyes sparkle as if the mere _whisper _of the word was worth more than nations filled with gold and wheat, as if it holds the key to life itself. They shimmer and sparkle and shine so brightly, filled with joy - something he did not expect.

"Uh... yeah. You're a little odd, sometimes." He sighs, sitting down on the old log. Many couples carve their initials into it - and did whilst it was still a sapling.

She only shoots him a smile, placing herself beside him. "I shall take that as flattery in its lowest form. Now, onto other matters - how is your sister? Sleeping well, now?"

He has to snap back to reality. "Huh? Oh, Em. Yeah..." He leans back, resting on his arms as he looks to the sky again. "She's sound asleep, safe with my Ma. She never sleeps this easy, so it's a nice change."

She copies him, though her arms are to her side as she lays down. "Nice change? Does rest not come easy to little Emma?"

Jack shakes his head, eyes narrowed with an emotion she cannot place. "No. Not when Pa leaves, anyway." He chuckles, "she's always so paranoid. Always trying to keep everything under her control."

"You speak so fondly of her, of Emma." He almost scoffs - _obviously! - _but chooses to only grin toothily at her. It's nice someone took notice, and she almost swoons at the brightness of his teeth, before clearing her throat. "Is your father a merchant?"

"Travelling one, yeah." He barely stifles a chuckle. "He travels with Abbey - our horse - a lot. He mainly sells crops from all over - though he can make quite a bargain with other stuff, too. Buy cheap to sell for more, or something like that. I don't really remember the saying." He smiles sheepishly. "Pa says he wants to open up his own shop one day, somewhere in a bigger city, but Ma can never bear the thought of leaving here. So he goes away longer to pay for more of our things."

"I can tell that he loves her, so very much. He sounds like a very wonderful man." The girl speaks the truth, as Jack has never known her to usher a lie. _But sounds like a lonely family, waiting for him to return._

"Best of the best." _She was closer to realizing those emotions than even he was._

"Would you make that same commitment when you are wed?" The question is random, irrelevant - and Jack cannot help but splutter, glancing at her with wide brown eyes.

"Wh-what?! Why... why would you even _say _something like that? Me... _wed? _I-I don't know!" Jack is quite clearly flustered, and she cannot help but giggle at the sight.

"Is it not a custom in these lands and beyond? To have a young, strong man wed to a pretty young girl to bear even prettier children?"

He sits up, rubbing the back of his neck. "I dunno. Though I think that's a pretty shallow reason to get married, anyway. Pa married Ma because he loves her. And she beat him at fishing."

"You are quite shy, right now." She notes, with a sly smile of her own, one he catches onto with red cheeks and a boyish pout.

"That's not fair, pointing it out. You don't need to comment on everything. Why not just... say quiet and enjoy it?" Jack grumbles, scratching his scalp.

"Okay. I shall."

"...Huh?" He says, expecting her to speak again.

But her lips stay pursed in a smile, a dazzling, pretty, _way too pretty _smile that causes his breath to catch in his throat, his eyes to widen and his fingernails to dig into the earthy soil underneath him. And it's nother teeth that captivate him in an awkward-yet-endearing case of crushes and confusion.

"I, uh, what are you looking at...?" He stammers awkwardly, eyes darting anywhere but her smile.

"You said to stay silent and enjoy things instead of comment on them all the time." She smiles at him, and his heart positively _flutters._ "So I am enjoying the stars in your eyes."

And he looks at her, perplexed. "But I don't have..." Yet, when he looks at her eyes, they mirror the same image: twinkling balls of fire, burning with the passion of a thousand unresolved dreams and hopes.

"Does staying silent also involve actions? Or can my body speak?" She shuffles closer, and he is in no place to decline or push away from what he knows, is a mutual agreement between themselves, their hearts, and their minds.

"No..." His gaze softens, "not at all." Jack whispers gently, and he sees her shiver from the cool breath on her lips. Pale pink, yet full lips. Lips that speak words that his tongue cannot understand, in the languages and structures he can only enjoy the melody of. He's heard her speak to many customers in her flower stall in her many languages and even communicate with a few of the rugged animals that scatter or run past (though that may be the result of some other kind of trait that is hidden in her many layers of colour).

The stars twinkle, yet remain in the same place as they did before, as their hands gentle join, entwining their fingers. The sky is velvet; dark and mysterious; but a soft stroke of rosy sunset still shines in the far distant hills. It almost stains it, but they are too far gone in the sweet taste of young love and puckered lips to care.

* * *

Her heartbeat hums as she quietly pivots and dances around the now-still stands. The scattering and loud advertising have retired to a tranquil sound of a gentle stream flowing, along with a soft whisper of smoke coming from one tent - _oh, her dear North will never be satisfied without his nightly supply of roasted marshmallows_ - shaking her head with a fond smile.

The stretch of rosy sunset ends when she delves further into the camp's richer centre; journeying more into the dead of night, past the flattened grass; and trailers painted with pictures showing a story to tell, and an adventure to boast about. It is here, she stops admiring and starts quietening down her passions to explore, the flower stall in sight. It smells like burnt sugar and chamomile again... oh, it used to be ever so sweet and pleasant. Now it just sickens her.

The girl looks around, eyes clouded with unknowing. Maybe from the wonder of young love, but something else realms and sits in her gaze. She breathes a quiet sight of relief, before stepping into the tent.

Maybe she can do a little extra-

_"And where have you been?"_

She freezes. Ice shoots up her veins, and it is not a pleasant chill; rather the numb bitterness one feels after treading in icy waters and knowing they can never return to its warm surface again.

"...M-mistress...?"

The woman in question is cloaked by shadow and a thick veil, shrouded in the darkness of the night. Not even the rays of the moon touch her skin, so it should seem to be as pale as the night. Her voice is calm, collected; dignified. As if royalty would be blessed to have just a drop of her blood spilt over their shoes.

_"I will not ask again, girl. Where have you been? I did not call upon you to collect any of the local flowers, and you do not dream without dancing first. Now tell me the truth."_

And the girl looks down, at her bare feet, shaking. The stray flower petals from the wood stick to her toes, and she does not welcome their presence like before (at least, not outwardly). She opens her mouth to speak, to excuse her reasons, to pardon her behaviour, before a hand halts her explanation.

_"You were with that hellion, weren't you? The one fast on his toes and icy skin to the touch." _

A flinch of recognition, and the secret it out.

_"You truly are as pathetic as they come. Dear child, you are but a cross-breed, a frayed feather destined to forever dance on that ticket to damnation that we dare to call winds of magic; howling currents that cannot change their course. Do you honestly think he would wait for a childish love to return? Be away from his beloved family and friends to travel with you and live a life of splendour?"_

The girl with the feathers glances up - her eyes no longer glinting shimmering stars of untold adventure. A sad shine, and the stars take pity. She hears a mirror shatter in one of the trailers - one of them must be sipping the cherry wine to their heart's content again.

With her hands behind her back, the suave and elegant mistress that she is, departs into her trailer. She dared not follow - it is filled with mirrors and books and spells and magic she is not sure will aid her or kill her. Remorse and regret fill her heart, finding it cause her to sink to her knees and sob and whine and wail softly.

The truth is a cold, hard mistress, as the girl finds out, at the sweet, tender age of fourteen.

* * *

The next day is colder, and Jack welcomes it with open arms and a wide heart. His smile is wide; his teeth absolutely _gleaming. _However, when he goes to the market that day, the girl only greets him with a shy wave and an even shyer smile (he assumes it's shyness - what else could it be?). Odd. Very odd indeed.

He intends to approach her, to ask her what is wrong - but his mother is ill, and he cannot give way to selfish desires when she needs assistance with the shop _and _to care for her like any good son should. Besides, Emma would be nagging at him for being late back again, so he cannot chance another one of her hour long lectures about "putting family first". He already knows all that, anyway.

So with the sun dimmed and the shadows more prominent, he takes the basket, fills it with supplies, and sadly leaves the wonderful market behind once again.

Wood chippings and a single feather trail in his fast feet after him, a twinkle through the shadows. Just another day to pass, after all.


End file.
